Staccato Notes of a Vanished Summer | Page 7

Texas
and the Brooklyn and the rest, and thought, "Ah, but for you, and our
need of proving your dire efficiency, perhaps we could have got on
with the wickedness of Spanish rule in Cuba, and there had been no
war!" Under my reluctant eyes the great, dreadful spectacle of the
Santiago fight displayed itself in peaceful Kittery Harbor. I saw the
Spanish ships drive upon the reef where a man from Dover, New
Hampshire, was camping in a little wooden shanty unconscious; and I
heard the dying screams of the Spanish sailors, seethed and scalded
within the steel walls of their own wicked war-kettles.
As for the guns, battle or no battle, our ships, like "kind Lieutenant
Belay of the 'Hot Cross-Bun'," seemed to be "banging away the whole
day long." They set a bad example to the dreamy old fort on the

Newcastle shore, which, till they came, only recollected itself to salute
the sunrise and sunset with a single gun; but which, under provocation
of the squadron, formed a habit of firing twenty or thirty times at noon.
Other martial shows and noises were not so bad. I rather liked seeing
the morning drill of the marines and the bluejackets on the iron decks,
with the lively music that went with it. The bugle calls and the bells
were charming; the week's wash hung out to dry had its
picturesqueness by day, and by night the spectral play of the
search-lights along the waves and shores, and against the startled skies,
was even more impressive. There was a band which gave us every
evening the airs of the latest coon- songs, and the national anthems
which we have borrowed from various nations; and yes, I remember the
white squadron kindly, though I was so glad to have it go, and let us
lapse back into our summer silence and calm. It was (I do not mind
saying now) a majestic sight to see those grotesque monsters gather
themselves together, and go wallowing, one after another, out of the
harbor, and drop behind the ledge of Whaleback Light, as if they had
sunk into the sea.
V.
A deep peace fell upon us when they went, and it must have been at
this most receptive moment, when all our sympathies were adjusted in
a mood of hospitable expectation, that Jim appeared.
Jim was, and still is, and I hope will long be, a cat; but unless one has
lived at Kittery Point, and realized, from observation and experience,
what a leading part cats may play in society, one cannot feel the full
import of this fact. Not only has every house in Kittery its cat, but
every house seems to have its half-dozen cats, large, little, old, and
young; of divers colors, tending mostly to a dark tortoise-shell. With a
whole ocean inviting to the tragic rite, I do not believe there is ever a
kitten drowned in Kittery; the illimitable sea rather employs itself in
supplying the fish to which "no cat's averse," but which the cats of
Kittery demand to have cooked. They do not like raw fish; they say it
plainly, and they prefer to have the bones taken out for them, though
they do not insist upon that point.

At least, Jim never did so from the time when he first scented the odor
of delicate young mackerel in the evening air about our kitchen, and
dropped in upon the maids there with a fine casual effect of being
merely out for a walk, and feeling it a neighborly thing to call. He had
on a silver collar, engraved with his name and surname, which offered
itself for introduction like a visiting-card. He was too polite to ask
himself to the table at once, but after he had been welcomed to the
family circle, he formed the habit of finding himself with us at
breakfast and supper, when he sauntered in like one who should say,
"Did I smell fish?" but would not go further in the way of hinting.
He had no need to do so. He was made at home, and freely invited to
our best not only in fish, but in chicken, for which he showed a nice
taste, and in sweetcorn, for which he revealed a most surprising
fondness when it was cut from the cob for him. After he had
breakfasted or supped he gracefully suggested that he was thirsty by
climbing to the table where the water-pitcher stood and stretching his
fine feline head towards it. When he had lapped up his saucer of water;
he marched into the parlor, and riveted the chains upon our fondness by
taking the best chair and going to sleep in it in attitudes of Egyptian, of
Assyrian majesty. His arts were few or